Spiral
by ink and ashes
Summary: Patient 1-12-9-3-5 goes home today.
1. Prelude: Dawn

_spiral_

**DAWN**

_The flower said "I wish I were a tree"_

_The tree said "I wish I could be_

_A different kind of tree."_

_The cat wished that it was a bee._

The cacophony of color assailed her vision grievously before the canvas finally took shape. Myriads of reds and maroons and vivid greens morphed and fleshed into reality, swirling before her enchanted amber eyes. Checkered blues and folding kerchiefs languorously spiraling amidst the hazy horizon of early morning's monotone.

The flowers twittered their silken petals in the eve of slumber, unraveling like the parchment of a long-awaited missive. Large, beady drops of dew clung steadfastly to their leaves and with a contented wriggle, these pesky, lumbering pests were shaken from their stems in a lavish glee. A chorus of refreshing sighs encircled the little valley as Nature awoke to the shy rays of a sleepy Sun, leisurely galumphing from some place far beyond the craggy mountains barely visible in the distance; the mischievous Moon had finally had enough fun with its nightly folly and would recede until the Sun conceded once more. The battle between Light and Dark had been forever thus, and would remain thusly forevermore.

But Moon's folly lay deeper tonight than it had any other night.

_The turtle wished that it could fly_

_Really high into the sky_

_Over rooftops and then dive_

_Deep into the sea._

'Twas the namesake of the silhouette that gave way to the ruse quite early in the game; it took nary a moment before the stunningly glittering sash of the be-pinned top hat enraptured her attention more than any wisdom her father had once lay upon the daughter whom would one day be the vessel of Curiosity. Treasures, those words, but the past lay in the song of the trees and the chirping of the gossiping birds that flew lazily overhead; in the humming Dandelions and the gentle breath of breeze that fluttered her loose autumn curls.

Her existence had been scattered amongst even the raw earth that easily gave way beneath her exploring toes, bare but for the socks that covered only half of her inquisitive feet. They dug deep into the cool soil, the vibration of _Life_ invigorating and inspiring her Spirit to soar higher and farther than ever once imagined.

_And in the sea there is a fish_

_A fish that has a secret wish_

_A wish to be a big cactus_

_With a pink flower on it._

"Oh, how I do so _enjoy_ our tea times," was the gentle lisp that met her flabbergasted, unvoiced question. "Always, always late but always, always right on time." A brief clapping of hands and a small, happy chuckle. "The clock only tick-tocks when you return and I think Time only allows me the decency of using it when you're around. "

As absolutely mad as she had absolutely left him to be. "I don't understand," she murmured, even as she knew she did. She knew and knew nothing. "How is this possible?" She dared not move anymore than she had already, fearful of this all-encompassing reality fading from her life once more. This radical, ridiculous, _real_ Dream and Nightmare of Impossibility and Ir-rationalization.

They'd told her it wasn't real.

"You know," his face practically _glowed_, but that could have also been the beauty of morning's blush. "I've been implementing that wonderful practice you so graciously shared and I dare say it's been quite glorious!" His excitement deepened his innocent impediment. "In fact, as I continue to contemplate this current contemptuous curiosity, I purpose we petition the White Queen to make a day of such an activity; can you imagine the flurry and frazzle of butter with tea?" To an unbiased onlooker, he was as giddy as a child. Then, quite suddenly, his wide smile shifted and drooped. "Have I made a rhyme?"

"No," she answers before she can help it. Her lips curve of their own accord. "I've missed you."

_And the flower_

_Would be its offering_

_Of love to the desert._

For a moment in its tiniest existence, his smile took on a rakish slant. One that even the Cheshire Cat may one day grow to envy – but, alas, Chessur was nowhere to be found and none of this explained why she felt as if she were floating. _How had she gotten here?_

"Alice," he purred. _Purred_. "You always, always keep us waiting. Naughty Girl."

His hand stretched forth, offering. Offering what? "I don't mean to," she replied earnestly, her fingers gently sliding against the calloused, tendony fingers and ruffled bandages that littered his appendages. Fingertips linger on the fleshy insides of his palm, marveling at the yielding surface. The weight of confusion tightened her grip, unsure. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Hatter; Time doesn't fancy me, either."

"Quite the contrary," was his silky reply, his twitchy hand grasping her much smaller one securely. "I think Time has favored you wonderfully. Perfectly wonderfully." His off-kilter smile disarmed her. "And the wonderfully perfect size, too!"

At that, she grinned carelessly. Freely. "Until I have to eat upelkuchen again." _Or that pishsalver._ Thankfully, she had arrived without the need for either… in fact, she had absolutely no idea how she had managed to stumble upon this particular villa within this particular valley.

_And the desert,_

_So dry and lonely,_

_That the creatures all appreciate the effort._

"Stop that mumbling," was the Hatter's reply, his tone bizarrely baritone.

Her eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" the soft lisp returned. His vivid irises faintly glowed with desperation.

Bewildered, she stumbled backwards. Panic choked her. "Why, Hatter?" She wanted to bolt forward but something unnameable held her back. Kept her arms bound tightly around herself. With a gasp, she struggled to free herself but could neither see nor unbind the constraints. "What's going on?"

The pretty canvas smeared, the colors evaporating.

_And the rattlesnake said,_

_"I wish I had hands so_

_I could hug you like a man."_

"Get her up and cleaned. The family's coming for her." The baritone had emerged once more, but it was not that of the Hatter's angry brogue. Her eyes fought to focus, lingering on the straps that hung limply from the clasps on her arms.

With a start, Alice Liddell Kingsleigh awoke from her huddled position in the corner.

The attendant turned and frowned at her. He held a chart in his hands and the young woman next to him wore gloves. Her nametag read 'Amelia' and his, 'Charles'. Before leaving the nurse to bathe and recloth the patient, he attempted vainly to reach what had long since – on legal documentation – retreated into the unreachable. "You're going home."

_And then the cactus said,_

_"Don't you understand,_

_My skin is covered with sharp spikes_

_That'll stab you like a thousand knives._

_A hug would be nice,_

_But hug my flower with your eyes."_

**END OF CHAPTER NOTE: **Lyrics copyright Kimya Dawson, "Tree Hugger". I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any incarnation, nor do I claim any monetary gain for any characters or actors depicted in this fan-made fiction. I know the prologue is short; I'm testing the waters. This will be the only song-fiction themed chapter – this song will have a reoccurring theme in this story, but it will not overwhelm the actual fiction. Thanks for reading.


	2. Memory One: Foam

_s p i r a l _

**FOAM**

Three handmaidens knelt by the ivory tub in silence, uneasy and weary as they tended to their mistress. One gently scattered freshly plucked petals and rose oil into the steaming waters; another washed and combed through the incredible mass of hair the woman had grown in her seven years of absence. The third lathered and sponged the ashen pallor of the lady's flesh, foam spreading over the slender plains of her back.

The aforementioned mistress sat wordlessly through the ministrations. The intense care could be mistaken for the tending of royalty, but young Miss Kingsleigh was not of royal blood – no, this woman had gone far too long without the pampering of hygiene and the vigorous maintenance of keeping it up to society's standards.

One of the servants dared break the silence. Melinda, perhaps? "Your hair's a thing of wonder, miss." The country in her seeped into her speech. It was charming and her attempt to brighten the frown on their mistress' face was an honest, if naïve, one.

Alice, lost in her thoughts so far away from here, shook her head. "I haven't had the opportunity to cut it."

And just as quickly, the silence returned.

When the water cooled and chilled her flesh, she stood and allowed the handmaidens to wrap her in towels, unable to fight nor dissuade them. Her hair was gently wrung and wrapped in a long, separate cloth, combs already clipped to keep it from her face during the dressing.

A robe was placed on her shoulders and the sash tied securely on her waist. The momentary restraint caught her off-guard and she blanched, the instinct to struggle quickly suppressed before she could make a fool of herself. Ignoring the women crowding around her, Alice turned towards the floor-length mirror on the far side of the room and frowned, turning away almost instantly. That _certainly_ wouldn't distract her. "I can dress myself," she murmured, moving away from their traveling fingers.

"Aye, miss," was the shaky voice of young-faced attendant. "But the madam said—"

Alice cut her off, annoyance rising violently like bile in her gullet. "_I will dress myself._"

The maids bowed and scuffled away.

The silence in their wake left her winded, an irrational fear bubbling up inside. Her knees buckled and she collapsed in a heap on the shining marble floors, the momentum unraveling the long cloth wound about her hair and allowing the toppling mass to writhe and fall about her. It spilled about her in a snarling pool of honey blood and hid her eyes from the light filtering in through the tall, pale lace curtains.

Her fingers traced invisible lines only she could see swirling on the immaculate floor before her, lost in a dream she had once been so certain had been a reality. Faces blurred and shimmered together, lovely greens and glimmering whites echoing one another in a mad dance of flickering lights. _'Mad?'_ That word had so many meanings. Vivid maroons and lazy blues joined the dance. No, the colors swirling about in her mind's eye were not mad. They were beautiful and terrible and had been the pinnacle of her downfall… but her heart ached and could not bring herself to hate them. Her father would have never allowed her to hate something that had once, so long ago, brought her such unadulterated joy.

No, the colors were not mad.

_"Alice!"_

She started with a terrified gasp. "No," she whispered. Curling on her side, she tightly squeezed her eyes closed, rocking herself ever-so-slightly. Perhaps she could shake away the hallucinations. Perhaps, if she tried, she could forget everything; forget about the lingering want to run to the estate formerly owned by the esteemed Ascots and find a rabbit hole at the base of an old tree; forget about a potion that could make her shrink and a cake that could make her grow; forget the animals that spoke in riddles and rhymes.

Forget about a wonderful place called Wonderland.

_"Alice!"_

Her hands clamped over her ears. For so long they had tried to quell any and all stories of the mystical world lying beneath their very feet – and after so long, she had learned to keep the residual images at bay… Or perhaps not, but she had kept it secret enough that the Warden and parade of doctors and psychologists had finally declared her sane.

It would not do to rehash these imaginations. Years lost in an off-white cell was enough of a reminder, but it did not stop the whisper – nay, urgent cry – that whimpered and beckoned her name. A part of her hungered and pined for the velvet timbre whilst another recoiled in fear. Perhaps they had been right. When the terribly familiar voice ardently cried her name once more, she screamed, if only to block out the sound. The tearless sobs wretched from her chest in an angry affront to her own confusion.

And then, miraculously, very strong – very _real_ – hands gently caught her wrists, pulling them away from her face. The sudden contact shocked her into silence and when her eyes sought the owner of those pale, pale appendages, the cry stuck and choked in her throat.

For one painful moment, her heart soared to impossible heights. Eternity squeezed itself into a millisecond of recognition and all of the pain and anguish and tears had been justified. Every time she had been deemed mentally unfit had been but an obstacle on her intended path; another foe to fell before emerging victorious with an ancient, magical sword covered in Jabberwocky entrails. Ascot's betrayal and her own lapse in judgment were trivial things of the past that no longer had a place in this space of her Oraculum.

In that Eternity, she felt free.

"Alice," was his soft, soft plea. His green eyes were no longer green, but the same impediment of speech was there. A sweet, soft ache arose. "Please, come back to us."

In the same instant, he was gone. And she was screaming once more.

_The flower said, "I wish I were a tree."_

With a violent shudder, she blinked and flailed.

Three handmaidens knelt by the ivory tub in silence, uneasy and weary as they tended to their mistress. One gently scattered freshly plucked petals and rose oil into the steaming waters; another washed and combed through the incredible mass of hair the woman had grown in her seven years of absence. The third lathered and sponged the ashen pallor of the lady's flesh, foam spreading over the slender plains of her back.

The one drowning the rose petals jolted at her sudden shiver. Anxious, Alice scanned every inch of the room about her; there lay no trace of the vibrant apparition that had so suddenly alarmed her. With a shaky sigh, she settled into the cooling waters.

Lost in another daydream, then. Goosebumps had risen like wildfire across her bare forearms but she fought to control her fluttering heartbeat; she leaned back and slid further underwater, concentrating on how gently the woman braiding her hair would rub her scalp. It soothed and helped her forget the odd flash of hysteria. When her bath came to an end, she threw a sharp glance over at the mirror almost hidden beside a dresser; that was where the ghost of her delusions had so harshly disarmed her nerves.

As she was wrapped in yards of towel, Alice glared at it as if it would strike at any moment. Fortunately, it never did.

"What color today, miss?"

The question brought her back to the present. She looked at the young servant girl and wondered, "What color, indeed?" Silence met her question, which suited her just fine. It was rhetorical in nature, at any rate. "Blue, I suppose," she murmured, unsure. A simple question with so many answers.

She always wore blue. Having declared it her favorite color as a child, it had remained a constant theme in her wardrobe since before her mother began insisting Alice attend parties to attract potential "suitors"… even though there had only ever been one man Helen Kingsleigh had planned for her daughter to marry. Blue flattered her features, she was told. Every memory she had was tinged with the refreshing splatter or two of blue.

In a way, it was tradition. But what if she decided to change her favorite color? Could she do that? Could she force herself to envision anything in another color and still find it just as desirable, if not more so? If so, then blue had never really been her favorite color to begin with and had only been declared as such due to inexperience and ignorance of a wider spectrum. It was all very confusing; who knew when one would find their favorite? It seemed impossible.

What color then? She would never consider red, but what about green? Or violet? Maybe even black, the absence of all color. One only ever wore black when in mourning, but white made her feel transparent; a ghost floating through time.

Time. So much of it lost. If she let herself fade, she could still smell the sharp sterility of the hospital. Bland walls and bland floors; the chilling click of a locking door. Silly notions that if she could just make them _believe_, everything would be perfect. Sailing to Asia had opened a new volume of insight and she wanted to go _farther_, devoured by a deep yearning to complete something – to make her father proud. To prove that the "disappointing" daughter of the mad genius was actually worth her weight in gold, although the income was not a necessary factor.

Imagine if all Lands were one? If magic and reality could coexist? It had been such a silly fancy, an idle thought whilst pondering the impossible one morning… but it had been such a _beautiful_ fancy. A mad, wonderful, impossible fancy. A broken fancy.

A blue fantasy. Sad blue; blue of the night sky before morning rose to reclaim its throne. Dark blues and deep blues. Blues that bled to purple but still kept its loyalties.

What color then…

"Miss?"

Alice nodded in acknowledgment. The maids were beginning to fret. "Blue," she whispered, turning away from the White Rabbit that kept hopping about the peripherals of her vision.

**END OF CHAPTER NOTE: **I sincerely appreciate all of your reviews and Alerts. I apologize for any misspellings or errors - my humanity plagues me. All of the chapters will be relatively short; it's simply the best way to tell this story. On an off-note, I just received the novelization of the motion picture directed by Tim Burton in the mail today, along with the original books by Lewis Carroll, and I plan on thoroughly devouring the volumes. I hope you enjoyed this "memory" and will continue to read.


	3. Memory Two: Circles

_s p i r a l_

**CIRCLES**

She lay peacefully amongst the endless sea of flowers, bare as the day she was born. Honey curls danced along her pale, supple frame to cover her most intimate shadows, resting gently by her bent knees. Each breath fluttered a stray tendril of shorter, platinum hair and when she finally awoke to the kind radiance of the afternoon Sun, her amber eyes were unfocused as she absently tucked it behind her ear.

Warmth and tranquility overwhelmed her entire being, like the indulgence of sleeping late. Even as she glanced down to discover her state of attire—or _lack_ thereof—it did not shatter the utterly unspeakable glow that bubbled and gushed at how _right_ she felt. Like the first breath of the salty sea breeze the first morning of the very first departure on the first ship she had ever sailed on; exactly where she was meant to be.

Completely and utterly _free_.

She stretched as languorous as a cat, enjoying the silken petals that tickled and grazed her flesh. Enjoying the rays of light that touched the crevices no other but she had ever laid eyes on before. Her body had never really held an interest to her, but to see it _like this_ was something she had never prepared for; polite _English_ society demanded propriety and modesty of its women, calling for layers upon layers of material even on the hottest of days of their temperamental Summers.

The soft crunching of grass brought her attention behind her, where a pair of bare feet were lazily approaching. She jerked and rose to her knees, turning to glare at the intruder.

And froze.

She recognized the visage immediately but there were a great many discrepancies when compared to the image that was long-ago engraved into her memory.

A satin robe of the darkest pitch hung from strong, broad shoulders, falling to gently tickle the very tips of his pale—and painted?—toes. A sash of the loveliest shade of red held the robe in place securely, preserving the most important aspect of his modesty… though it seemed he did not have an issue with that matter as his torso was quite clearly exposed to her wandering eyes; he was absolutely beautiful and a part of her quivered with a tense, jagged anxiety that unfurled deep within her belly and frightened her.

His hair, much longer than she remembered, was lightly held by a single ivory ribbon, a few rebellious curls escaping to kiss his cheeks appealingly. So obviously the Mad Hatter, yet so completely _not_ the Mad Hatter that she doubted herself.

When he knelt before her, he smiled warmly. So did she. "I've waited for you."

His voice was devoid of the lisp she was expecting, but not lost to the Outlandish timbre as he was wont to do in his anger. _This_ Hatter, she did not know. "Me too."

He tilted his head. "Did you lose yourself?" A single finger rose to play idly with a curl that rested upon her bare shoulder. His hands, she noted, did not have the bandages and thimbles and pincushions as was his trademark; they were clean and as bare as she… which she suddenly, inexplicably, regretted. She did not move to cover herself, however, nor did anything compel her to in spite of the very alarming fact that she was _alarmingly_ aware of the raw masculinity hidden beneath the yards of fabric and lean muscles that so kindly enhanced his unassuming, _wonderful_ frame. Never had she been so aware of her own femininity and she could feel the small blush slowly engulfing the pale expanse of exposed flesh.

The contact and his intimate proximity sent goosebumps down her arms. "I think you've misunderstood." She paused. "But… yes, I think I did." Another pause. "I have."

A frown marred his brow. She was sad to see it. "Where did you go?"

"Right here." Silly man, did he not see her?

He smiled again and it was all she could do to reign in the fit of giggles that threatened to bubble forth. Good Lord, has she no sense? What was with her, all of a sudden? She struggled to contain herself and these new, alien reactions to a dear, dear friend. "You would not be here if you were not lost, my dear Alice." He sat before her, leaning in to nuzzle the very edge of her jawline—he hummed with comfort and care.

A giggle escaped. "That doesn't make any sense."

His fingers came down upon her skin to stroke and lovingly caress in slow, languid circles; they left a trail of fire in their wake and she shivered. "Then what does?"

Her eyes bore into his very green, very knowing eyes. Nothing about him spoke of the disheveled and tattered Hatter that she had known so well—but his eyes were the same, ever-changing and aglow with such a myriad of thoughts that were always impossible to decipher. She brought her own hand to his face, her thumb softly familiarizing the feel of his skin. "I'm not so sure anymore." And the truth in those words struck a chord somewhere both far away and long forgotten.

There was some odd, unknowing informality between them; the barrier had been broken and the feel of him was natural and achingly familiar. _Friend _no longer seemed appropriate, for he spoke and gave her the regard of a lover.

_Lover. _

This indescribable, _inexplicable_ transformation did not deter her, but it made her pause. When had that happened? She tried to remember, but when the darker spaces of her mind drew no conclusion she did not linger upon such a trifling matter; he was here, she was here—wherever _here_ was—and nothing about this felt wrong. Perhaps some things were better left unsaid… but there was a small, leeching doubt that sapped at the paradise promised in his beseeching eyes.

The desire to touch him—to explore him—grew and she kissed the dimple at the end of his smile. Her belly fluttered. His arm wrapped around her torso, stroking the fine arch of her spine as his fingertips teased and worshiped the soothe plains of her back. "I don't know what's gotten over me," was her honest, breathless murmur and the hazy-eyed young woman rested her head against his own. His breath was sweet against her cheek.

A gentle breath escaped his lips and he shattered before her horrified gaze. A million particles imploded and dispersed into the air, glittering about her like stars.

Alone, she trembled, confused and terrified.

Shackles, thick and cold, clamped tightly over her wrists. A familiar anxiety tightened her chest, the sudden instinct to scream wrenching a cry from her throat. Like so many times before, she fought wildly against the unyielding confines, the animalistic fury in being restrained—controlled, subdued, _tamed_—thusly fueling the vicious flames of indignation that arose like bile in her gullet. Around her, the vibrant rainbow of petals dissolved into blackness and the light that had warmed her so… was quelled.

She shook and rattled and yanked at the chains. They gave her neither inch nor quarter and she bared her teeth at the offending metal, crying for the Hatter to help her—for _anyone_ to help her. Metal bars, metal walls, metal beds. Padded cells, padded walls, metal beds. Jackets and _so many_ clasps and straps that in order to escape from it, one had to dislocate their joints in the process. _'Not again. Let me go—let me out of here!'_ In dismay, she clenched her eyes shut, praying for it all to just _go away_.

_"No, Alice!" _a soft, sweet lisp begged. _"Do not Forget!"_

It was then that, with a strangled gasp, Alice awoke in a tangle of sheets on her grand down mattress.

She inhaled deeply of the cool evening breeze that drifted in through an open window. Her nightclothes were drenched in her sweat and stuck to her awkwardly in odd places. With a groan, she climbed out of bed and peeled the clothes from her trembling body. _'Just a dream.'_ She echoed the mantra as she threw the thick material into the hamper and only stopped when the cooling, calming night air elicited a contented sigh.

Chills were still crawling up her spine and when she chanced a glance at her hands, she discovered that they trembled like terrified children. Even fisted, they shook. As she futilely tried to stop the curious movement, her body remembered and felt what her mind could not: in the darkened haven of her room, large tears coated her flushed cheeks in a sadness she would never comprehend. Sobs wracked her fragile, shivering silhouette. And when she thought she could cry no more, she sank to the floor in dismay and slowly rocked herself into tranquility—something familiar. Her heart was heavy but she fought to quell the uneasiness in her shattered soul.

Shattered…

Her naked skin fairly glowed in the moonlight. The field of flowers and the sultry redhead immediately came to mind but she quelled the images, mostly out of habit. _Delusions_. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind as she plopped back down onto her mattress. Damn trying to find another pair of pajamas; it was too warm for nightclothes, anyhow.

When she awoke again some time in the late afternoon, she remembered nothing of her dreams.

_The tree wished it could be a different kind of tree..._


	4. Memory Three: Frozen

_s p i r a l _

**FROZEN**

They were enjoying a leisurely stroll through their gardens, sauntering past the perfectly-trimmed hedges and strategically planted rose bushes. They spoke of tea and the weather and clothes and parties and how lovely were the sounds of birds singing in the morning? …And they spoke of the weather some more. When Helen Kingsleigh realized she would get nothing from her daughter except the occasional, "I see," she finally relinquished the young woman to the care of the maids. Back in her rooms, her daughter seemed to feel at ease and content.

That would have to do, for now.

Since her return from _that place_, Alice had not spoken much to her mother aside from the initial, hysterical breakdown she had been unable to quell—seven years in a cage both physical _and mental_ will occasionally cause one to believe that the _reality_ was no longer real, either—and she felt a nagging guilt at the realization.

Perhaps she should confide in her mother the dreams she had been experiencing; her entire life had been defined by a single, reoccurring dream that had proven to be a memory… how odd to finally experience others to add variety to her contemplations.

Her mother had loved her father, after all; there must be some tiny, long-forgotten irregularity hidden deep within Helen Kingsleigh that had bound the two irrevocably. Perhaps her mother would know what to make of the strange apparitions of pale hatters and rabbits in waistcoats. Why blue butterflies always wrought a "Hello, Absolem," from her lips as if it were something that came as easily as breath. Or why she would sometimes see disembodied smiles and _know_ that the grin belonged to a cat.

She did not know cats could smile.

No, she mulled, that would not go well with her mother; a single word pertaining to anything out of the norm would instantly trigger some kind of scandalized lecture about propriety and how women her age should be _married with children_ by now. How her _looks would not last_ and how she was already _half way to becoming Aunt Imogene_ and how it was already _hard enough to find interested suitors now that she was deemed unapproachable and possibly unstable_ and _what was she thinking?_

The only reason _You're being a burden to your poor, aging mother_ was not added to the list could attribute mostly—if not wholly—to the fortune she had amassed during her ventures in the Asian continent, and how handsomely her mother's monthly income had become.

Of course, the only reason she had been released was due to Lowell's "connections"; a kind way of implying that Lowell—that conniving, cheating, greedy snake in the grass—knew that the only possible course of action leading to Margaret inheriting Alice's fortune was through said Kingsleigh's demise… rotting away in a Chinese mental institution had not been in the legalities back then. If her name had not been cleared and her health "officially stable" within the allotted time space of seven years, that money would be given to the state.

Lowell had not cared if Alice were "stable" or not; the bank notes in the blonde's name was enough to kill kings for.

She had a vision of herself falling to the cool floors, her hands clamped tightly over her ears in dismay. The scream, "_SEVEN YEARS!"_ came dangerously close to spilling from her throat but she managed—just barely—to quell the hysteria. One ounce of _that_ kind of behavior and she would be sent back to the loony bin, regardless of which daughter of whatever political figure Lowell had once had unlawful "relations" with.

With a shaky sigh, Alice blinked away the image.

In a daze, the young mistress grabbed her brush and began the long, laborious task of taming the wild mass of hair she had been born with—overgrown, now, and fell in countless curls to the very center of her knees. Veins of silver fire spiraled through the thick length of honey hair and after what felt like hours, she became sick of trying to fix what she had never succeeded in fixing before.

Catching sight of herself in her full-length mirror, she wondered if it needed fixing. Certainly, it was not what was expected of a woman her age; _children_ wore their hair freely, without restraints or combs and gaudy pins. _Women_ refined their hair with ridiculous baubles and years of ingrained discipline.

But she was not Alice that way. Alice liked her hair free.

An image of herself lying bare beneath the Sun struck her fiercely. She watched the frown form between her brows with annoyance. What an odd notion, even for her.

Yet, it was worth continuing. It must have been, for she found herself undressing before the mirror with care. With curiosity. Her body was an alien thing and as layer upon layer was stripped from her damp flesh, she found herself wondering _Was that always there?_ and _Does every woman's look like this?_ Her ignorance of her own vessel frightened her. What else had she been unaware of?

She had always kept a lean build. Not athletic, not seductive—certainly not that of a voluptuous woman—but merely lean. Her collarbone and shoulders had always been thin, but now seemed ghastly so. Her breasts were not obscure—she supposed, but how was she to know if she had never seen another pair?—and not overly pronounced, but they were of a size that suited her just fine. Her abdomen… she grimaced at the _very_ pronounced ribcage; if she wanted to, she could count each bone with disgust.

She would have to eat more. More meat, perhaps, as her belly was decidedly concave and her hipbones were merely sharp angles that slanted into an unremarkable pelvis. _Skeletal_. She looked like a _corpse_ and it was enough to send a wave of nausea through her. No wonder the maids would look upon her with pity when they bathed her. Or dressed her.

It was her eyes, however, that stopped her heart.

The bruising around them had faded a bit since the days of her return, but the vague purple still lingered. All of the tears had left their mark, it seemed, but it was not what had her so entranced. No, she had seen her gaunt and haunted face the day she came home—the first of many demons she had faced once safe in the walls of her room. Now, there were improvements, but… _her eyes were green_.

She had been born with _brown_ eyes. Eyes of honey, eyes of the dying leaves in autumn. Eyes that would gleam a vibrant gold in the Sun.

Not green. Never green.

Only one man had ever laid claim to those vibrant irises that stared at her reflection. A man, she realized, she was finding harder and harder to remember. But why did she so fiercely need to remember him? She blinked, but they did not change. A memory nagged at her brain but she could not conjure the whole of it. T.. Tar… Terrance? No. She faltered.

"What am I forgetting?" she asked the woman in the looking glass. Her hand touched the cool surface and trembled, hesitating over the image of those strange, alien eyes.

For the first time in her life, Alice fainted.

_The cat wished that it was a bee_

When she came to, Alice lay fully clothed on her bed, the sheets pulled to her chin. For a moment, all she could recall was the stroll through the gardens with her babbling mother and how awkward it was to want to say _so much_ to someone who could never understand. It brought her sadness, and a deep loneliness she had not felt since the day her father had left her behind in a world that would _never understand_. With people and places and _everything_ that would _never understand_... but then she remembered the irrational fear that had accompanied her loss of consciousness. _Green..._ Frantically, she threw off the covers and scrambled to the mirror, falling and flailing painfully on the hard, unforgiving ground.

Her eyes, she saw with relief, were brown again. And she forgot why she was worried.


	5. Verse One: Forsaken

**S P I R A L**

_Scroll One: Verse One (Forsaken)_

In spite of the nightmares the 'hospitals' had given her, she had learned much about psychology whilst the doctors poked and prodded her for answers.

The one—and only—time she had _ever_ dared to breath a word about the Underland so dear to her—with the exception of Lord Ascot—she had been asked to describe _everything_ in full detail. Down to the last candlestick and tapestry… which she did, as best as she could. Perhaps trying to understand her _psychosis _or perhaps out of genuine curiosity; whatever had been behind the meaning, the relief of finally speaking of something that had so inspired and thrilled her overwhelmed every nerve in her body. The rabbit with the waistcoat-pocket and watch, the grinning cat, the Gryphon, the Unicorn, the Lion, the Dodo, the Jabberwocky, the blue caterpillar… the Queens of Red and White, the White Knight, the Knave of Hearts, the King of Hearts, Tweedledee and Tweedledum… the Dormouse, the _absolutely bonkers_ March Hare… the hatter. The Mad Hatter. The talented and sometimes tempestuous hatter. There were times when she would forget what she had spoken and would veer off into a tangent regarding some conversation she had participated in with the hatter. There were times she would simply fail to speak.

There were times a doctor would stop her explanations and ask odd questions about her "Underland". Such as, "Have you ever considered that, perhaps, the reason these hallucinations seem so real—so vivid—to you, is because they are based upon a nugget of truth?" When she had not answered, he took it upon himself to cure her ignorance. He took it upon himself to explain. "Many times, when a patient has suffered a particularly rough or emotionally scarring event—especially young—they will retreat from the world they know, taking comfort in their sanctuary. But as wild as the imagination may be, all things created by this person would be influenced on the very primal and basic foundation of the patient's life. In short, these delusions are your own, distorted reality."

Her glare had been murderous.

He had straightened his glasses, glancing at the chart in his hands. "For instance, there is this hatter you mention consistently." Regularly. _Every single time _they asked her about her precious Underland, she would speak of him… did they not know that he was the _essence_ of Underland itself? His vivid plumage and ephemeral demeanor were everything that Underland had to offer in a single host. Her guide, her support, her savior in those trying and _terrible_ times. In her current state, however, she did not believe she had spoken so much of this particular subject that it had become _noticeable_. "Describe him as best as you can."

Of all people, why the hatter? The choice seemed horribly random. "Nothing would be appropriate." She allowed a small, wry smile. "But he was wonderfully mad."

A small pause. She wished she knew what was on that chart he held so reverently. "He sounds like a representation of your father, Miss Kingsleigh."

And Alice had never spoken of Wonderland again.

They had believed that the youngest of the Kingsleigh daughters would be forever lost to the world. After her absolutely _mad_ venture to the Orient, what could any well-groomed lady assume? With a father like hers had once been, it had only been a matter of time, they whispered behind fluttering fans and lacy gloved hands. She was what mothers warned their girls they would one day become if they did not uphold proper manners and etiquette.

But they had been wrong.

_Ridiculous_ doctors with their _ridiculous _claims and their _ridiculous_ assumptions be damned.

In a ball gown of simple blues and whites, she could easily outshine any rosy-cheeked debutante eager for the approval of the _ton_. Her ashen pallor was all the rage this year; the fairer, the frailer, and _every_ girl knew that the way to a man's heart was to act the delicate rose. Her mane had been tamed with ivory combs and genteel gloves covered the unsightly scars around her wrists and the sad, marred canvas of her forearms.

Mad or not, Alice Liddell Kingsleigh was beautiful. A _wealthy _beauty, at that. What was madness when presented with such a boon? After several months of being a recluse in the aftermath of her release, it seemed the woman had regained more sense than ever before.

Sitting with a half-emptied glass of wine in her hands, Helen Kingsleigh smiled, glad that the days of her hosting such elaborate and grandeur parties were long gone. No one ever noticed the effort and work involved in making these events flawless, but all of London would rain Hellfire upon the poor soul who would _dare_ to host a less-than-fabulous affair. If the elite did not glisten and preen amongst absolute splendor, all hope was lost for the family name at stake, for no one would be caught ever attending their festivities ever again.

Alice had not been wrong in questioning the arrogance of their culture, Helen noted with a small bit of irony… and pride.

Said woman was currently found spinning about the dance floor with some young—younger than she!—man overly anxious for her affections. Helen smiled a bit, incredulous that she had even managed to coax Alice into attending, let alone dance with anyone. Her daughter was known to wander off at occasions and it absolutely astounded her that Alice—so much like her lost Charles—actually seemed to be… _enjoying_ herself. How completely unexpected.

Her laugh echoed beautifully, mingling with the heady tang of the music. Helen heard it even from her seat and wondered how her daughter had learned to command a room so thoroughly; there were men and boys alike eagerly awaiting for an opening to ask for the blonde's hand in the next dance.

And Alice charmed. Her smile, though somewhat odd to the woman—the _mother_—that had raised her, lit the room better than any candelabra—better than a _thousand_—ever could. The slight flare of the gown she wore hid the ghostly frame and added volume and health to a girl—_woman_—that, if one bothered to look, needed much more than a mere _ball _fix; the small amount of powder made her luminescent and, not for the first time, Helen was reminded of how absolutely fortunate she was to have such wonderful, _beautiful_ daughters… for, indeed, all women should be content to have beautiful children to dangle in front of wealthy would-be benefactors…

But Helen loved her children. Had loved—_still_ loved—their father. And though they brought her great pride and joy, the façade of flesh was not enough to placate her.

There was something missing here, she was convinced. In all of the years she had spent arguing and fighting and debating and practically _bribing_ her daughter to even wear a corset—stockings were another matter entirely, and she would prefer to never again remember that _horrid_ debacle with petticoats and strawberry jam _so long ago_—did _not_ equate to the same girl she saw before her, turning the men into fluttering women anxiously hoping to spark the interest of a wealthy, handsome rogue. Helen did not believe that _that _place had broken her willful child—woman she may be, but child she would always remain in her mother's eyes—to the point of mindlessness, but how could anyone buy this? Alice had somehow reversed the playing field on them all.

Or perhaps the Madam Kingsleigh was merely growing paranoid in her old age.

Helen sighed, laughing at herself a bit.

The next several weeks passed in this fashion. Invitations began pouring in after Alice's absolutely _perfect_ reinstatement into society. It was summer and everyone who was _anyone_ grasped at the chance to impress and lavish the public with elaborate displays of power and wealth, often to trapeze their bargaining chips—their _children_—around in the hopes of furthering said wealth and power. Garden parties, tea parties, horseback riding—side-saddle for the ladies, of course—parties, luncheons, evening parties, balls with music and dancing and simpering men, boat parties by the luxurious wharf resort, and so _many_ conventions she could barely process and catalogue them all for fear of missing some important event. Of course, none were in regard for some special occasion—they were all thrown for and at the leisure of those with enough merit to their titles and names to gloat about it.

And Alice… well. With a smile, Helen watches as, yet again, her daughter twirls about in such a lovely burst of color. Alice had so _wonderfully_ integrated herself into the intricate network of the _ton_ and, previous scandal and gossip notwithstanding, managed to elicit a warm reception from even the most haggard and miserly of the hags that plagued London with their envy, ill-will and general malcontent.

When Hamish and Alice had been promised since birth, there had not been a grievous need for other men to call upon her; it could be why Helen had been so lenient of her child's blatant disregard for all things proper throughout the years, for the future had been secured. Now, in spite of all assurances that this situation would play out otherwise, men waited on her hand and foot. Helen recalled—and promptly held back a bark of laughter—at the memory of the Kingsleigh parlor _stuffed_ with men to such a degree she feared she would never alleviate the odor of starch and testosterone from her manor.

They had, however, and had even shared a good laugh over tea about it. Everything was going _swimmingly_ and Helen was sure that, this time next year, there would be a grand wedding and shortly thereafter, she would have little Alice replicas begging for grandmother—or would she preferred to be called _grandmere_, she wondered, as some older ladies prefer… even though none of them had _ever_ traversed those parts of Europe—to pick them up, or read them a story… shopping for little gowns and cravats and stockings and ties. Would the children take after Charles' side of the family, or her own? She found she did not care, so long as they were hale and whole. Oh, but Alice would be the perfect, most _beautiful_ bride and an even better mother. The future was bright for the first time in _so long_, and even Margaret—who, with her adorable sons, had opted to stay with them for a while—was excited for Alice. For them. And with her two _beautiful_ daughters with her, Helen knew Charles would be happy.

Everything was _perfect_.

In retrospect, she realized as she stares balefully at the clock the next morning, she should have listened to her intuition.

With the gaiety of the party—an evening one, with an orchestra and dozens of promising suitors present—only a memory, Alice had—breathlessly—asked to be excused to her rooms after nearly tumbling from the carriage. Whilst worry plagued her, Helen had conceded after a small smile and a very genuine compliment upon her daughter's remarkable performance thus far and even more startling recovery. _'I suppose things must worsen before they mend completely,_' she mused, wondering why so much of her late husband's words made so much more sense to her now than they had so long ago…

Something had _felt_ wrong during the ride home. That same something had felt wrong when Alice could barely manage the stairs to her chambers—clumsy, clamoring feet that had so gracefully glided in the quadrille and waltz in dance mere moments ago—but she had put her fears aside. The girl was just tired, for never had she seen Alice actively engage so vigorously in a party so thoroughly before… tonight had been the pinnacle of brilliance. Perhaps the girl was overwhelmed? So much attention would do that, especially to someone so uncomfortable in the spotlight. The possibilities seemed endless and with a small smile, Helen had lulled herself into a sense of security as she wrapped the many blankets about herself—English summers were _horrible_ and _horribly_ indecisive—and finally laid her head to rest.

But _something_ had awoken her.

That same something propelled her to rise from her comfortable mattress and reach for her robe, her heart fluttering. Her bare feet found her slippers without a thought and she grabbed a candle from her bedside table as a precaution. The clock croaked a bleak three in the morning and the night sky still held sway; she lit the candle decisively before exiting her own bedchamber and hesitantly padded down the quiet corridor of the manor with _something_ akin to trepidation.

Her feet came to her youngest's door of their own accord. No sounds came from within, but _something_ pulled her here. Even as she gently laid a hand onto the cool knob, she _knew_ she had come to the source of this… _something_. A turn and a push, she holds up the candle, hoping—and so _sure_—that Alice would be peacefully slumbering.

But 'twas not to be.

Jagged shards—so many sharp edges…—litter the ground, only a few having skid as far as the doorway. Torn and ripped fabrics were thrown about in disarray—were those the _curtains_? A glance at the great windows confirmed her suspicions—and… _everything_ was destroyed. The bureau had been flipped onto its front, drawers half-opened—or simply _ripped off_—and its contents spilling about unchecked. A piece of the frame that had once held a very valuable hand-mirror in place could be spotted beneath the abused blue of a gown—its frills and lace had been hacked to pieces, of course—and the large, floor length mirror in the corner had been thrown clear across the room, meeting the same fate at the bureau. The fresh linen coverlets had been treated just as badly, torn and bunched in the corner the tall looking glass had now vacated; trinkets and combs and brushes had been tossed and thrown unceremoniously; even the _mattress_ had been upturned in—what _must have been_—fury.

Only two things remained undamaged: Alice, and the pillow she used to muffle her shuddering sobs… and, given another scan of the truly dismal state of the room, she was not completely sure that Alice was _not_ damaged. At the sound of her intrusion, the young woman's face finally appeared and those eyes… that expression… the feeling that everything was so _horrendously_ wrong…

_This_ was that something. The same something that had been nagging her all of last night. When Alice had crumbled in her arms after the release. All of those months—years! So _many_ years—she had not known where her daughter was, or what had happened to her. Ever since Alice had first stepped aboard that ship at port with that eager smile and those eyes that _so _reminded her of Charles… _this_ something had finally reared its vile head and the sight was more than she could bear. "Alice…?" She did not know what she asked of her daughter. She did not know _what_ to ask—but… what could she do?

Tears dripped from those eyes so readily, Helen marveled at how she had not seen it before. Or had she? Instead of asking, she had merely justified everything to herself instead of talking to the one person who _needed_ someone to talk to. She was ashamed to admit she had avoided the confrontation, fearful of the answers Alice would give to the many questions clawing in the pit of her stomach; Why did Ascot throw you to the wolves, Alice? Why were you in an _asylum_, Alice? Why did they keep you there for so long, Alice? What did you say, Alice? _What happened to you, Alice?_ Now, looking upon that painfully young face, Helen wished she could go back and heal her daughter. Stop all of this madness from happening; stop the pain this woman she loved _so much_ felt… for reasons she could not—and possibly never would—fathom. "M-m…" A choke stopped Alice before she pressed on, her eyes wide with enough disbelief to cease the tears—ever so briefly—from their journey down her cheeks. "Mama?"

Her heart broke.

Helen nearly dropped her candle, but recovered enough to haphazardly balance it on the floor by her trembling child. She scooped up her little girl—for, in that instant, she was not the woman that had so boldly stolen the hearts of London, but just a terrified little girl again, with nightmares she could not understand and ghosts behind her honey eyes—and held tightly, allowing Alice's nonsensical ramblings to bleed into her robe. Sobs and tears wracked her small frame and Helen wondered at the intensity of it. What had happened? Everything was _fine_… _what had happened?_ The question circled her cerebrum several times and when no answers became apparent, she clutched Alice tighter.

Belatedly, she realized that tears had fallen from her own eyes. With naught to do except to be the anchor Alice needed, Helen glanced towards the Heavens and wondered what was _wrong_ with her little girl.

_The turtle wished that it could fly_

_Really high into the sky_

_Over rooftops, and then dive_

_Deep into the sea._

**AFTERWORD: **_**WARNING: **_The story has finally progressed to the point where I must now warn you that the following will be included in the future chapters; Character Death, Strong Violence (Physical, Emotional and Mental), Explicit Sexual Content (really close to NC-17, but I've had a story removed before and I've grown rather fond of this one, so no outright smut), (IM)Mature Language, Torture (it gets brutal…), and… I'll let you know if anything else comes up. After this chapter, this story will be moved from… whatever I put it under to M. It will get progressively _darker_. If this offends or irritates anyone, I apologize and I would hate for people to start disliking this story simply because of its… I don't really know _what_ to call it. Please, turn back if _any_ of this upsets you, as I do not write dark themes unless I intend to make a point. A bad one. This is not some simpering love story (wait, it _is_, but nowhere _near_ that part yet… lol).

By the way? If you haven't listened to Kimya Dawson's "Tree Hugger"… then wtf are you waiting for? Flying turtles! Come _on_.

Thank you for reading thus far. Please review – constructive criticism is always welcomed and flames, if worded properly and tastefully, are also welcomed. I would like to know what caused you to _hate_ the story so much that you felt you had to tear through every chapter until you could bear it no longer and sent a flame. XD Reviews keep writer's going, and though I expected no one to even notice this piece of drivel—and would have posted it, regardless of anyone's inattention—it still makes me smile that someone took time out of their day to, not only read, but also let me know what they think of my garbage.

Thank you so much for your continued reading-ness. :)


	6. Memory Four: Blur

_s p i r a l_

**BLUR**

The impossibly pink horizon clashed oddly with the impossible green of the grass beneath her bare feet. It could not be real, of course, as she had _just been standing in her room_ a moment before, trying to clean the shattered pieces of her chamber—her _life_—before her mother awoke once more.

But she could smell the sweet fragrance of Spring in the breeze and the lovely lullaby of songbirds in the distance. She surveyed the land about her and found that she stood atop a small hill that, if she leaned far enough, overlooked the effervescent White Castle of Mamoreal. Soldiers littered the grounds on patrol, several more engaged in mock-combat on what looked to be training grounds by the stables; the trees swayed and sighed in tune with the calm, cool winds and she could almost hear their soft voices humming through their delicate blossoms. The early morning Sun shed light upon the glistening walls of the estate and, to Alice, the castle gleamed with diamonds.

She ran towards it, the siren's call irresistible.

A few Flowers huffed when she accidentally stepped on their stems, but she did not—_could _not—spare them even the smallest bit of attention; she _needed_ to get there. The White Queen would be there, and if _any_ of this was real—even in her mind—she absolutely _had_ to know. Mirana would not—_could_ not—lie.

Her body slammed into the gates, unable to stop the momentum she had built. A small part of her knew she _must_ seem mad, but that hardly mattered; half the world thought her mad, and yet, she was pushing with all of her might through the large Gates of the White Castle, running without care towards the beacon of light that had been the only hope during the times of Red. She was _here_, in spite of everything suggesting otherwise and… Alice needed to know. Needed someone to tell her she had _not imagined_ this very wonderful place and its wonderful people and the wonderful adventures that had so molded and shaped her life. Her delusions may have all been fantasy, but this place _had_ to be real. It had to, or else she would lose the last seam that had heroically sewn the tattered pieces of her world together.

"_Mirana!_" she cried, bursting through the pearlesque double doors of the foyer, skidding to a halt once in the parlor. Frogs and Fish in tiny white suits twittered with anxiety and annoyance behind her as they begrudged her the swiftness and ill-mannered state of her arrival. Instead of apologizing, she searched frantically with her eyes. "_Mirana!_" Her vision caught sight of a large, winding staircase and she made a dash for it without hesitation, a Frog calling after her in alarm.

Alice skidded and slid on the cool, white marble floors. Every few steps, her feet would catch in their hurry. At the next landing, she sprinted through the halls, calling for the Queen she had befriended and defended so long ago. Rounding a corner, she slammed against a wall and took a mere second to catch her breath, her chest heaving from exertion. _Damn _her body for its weakness! Ignoring the slight burn, she continued her search, desperation coating her flesh with perspiration. She knocked on every passing door, hoping her voice would carry and ultimately, bring her Queen out of hiding… wherever she may be. "_Mirana!_" Her voice, she knew, was growing hoarse. Her feet were hurting from the friction of flesh and marble sliding and rubbing together without rest; her lungs were ready to burst. When the Queen did not appear on this floor, she flew back towards the steps to ascend to the next, determined to find her answers.

A voice, like an angel's, danced down the staircase. "Is that…?"

Alice stopped in mid-step, her eyes looking towards the Heavens to see a white mane, followed by the sharp contrast of dark, _dark_ eyes. A dainty hand barely touched the banister and, when that familiar face met the frazzled stare of the Champion of _so long ago_, those impossibly dark eyes widened in surprise. "_Alice?_"

"Your Majesty!" She tried to cover the distance as fast as she could, with the Queen hastily trying to do the same.

"Alice, what—" It may not be considered proper to interrupt a Queen, but when Alice fairly knocked the wind out of her with her desperate embrace, Mirana eagerly returned the gesture. "I could scarcely believe my ears! How did you manage to get back?" A pause. "And your memory!" She held the younger blonde at arm's length, smiling at her… then frowning once she took a moment to _actually _look at _the_ Alice. "Wha… what _happened_ to you, Alice?" There was worry and sympathy and _so much more_ in her soft voice.

To her horror, Alice felt tears start to fall. All she _ever_ seemed to do was cry anymore. "Mirana…" In comparison to the Queen, Alice's voice was a mere rasp, rough and ragged. "Is this real? Am I really here, speaking to you, in Mamoreal? Did I defeat the Jabberwocky?" Those were _not_ the questions she had wanted to ask, but they found their way out of her lips of their own accord. So many more followed. "Am I mad?" Her voice rose slightly in hysteria. "What day is it? What _year_ is it? Did I dream all of this up? Is the butterfly really Absolem? Does the hatter have green eyes?" Her strength was flailing, faltering. Her knees gave out and she collapsed, Mirana following her in alarm. "Is there really a potion that makes you shrink… a cake that makes you grow… a grinning cat… rabbits and waistcoats…" The sobs had completely taken over her speech, small syllables breaking through but never in any manner of logical sequential order.

Mirana grasped one of her shaking hands, and realized that the tremble ran like a current throughout the girl's small frame. "Please, Alice. Tell me what happened."

"I…" How could she begin to tell the sad tale of what her life had become? She shook her head. "I need to know," was all she could say.

But before the radiant Queen could bestow her knowledge upon the pitiful ghost of the Champion Alice, the castle—all of its immaculate walls and brilliant floors and lacy curtains—exploded into a million tiny shards. The Queen, too, shattered as easily as the mirrors had shattered once Alice had thrown them with enough force. The scattered pieces of a puzzle. The many jagged clippings of Underland froze and surrounded her like tiny gems; Alice hardly dared to breathe, her heart fluttering as fast as a hummingbird's wing.

The kaleidoscope of color both intrigued and frightened her, quelling all other thoughts for a moment. A finger reached out hesitantly to touch one of the pieces hovering above her nose and instantly regretted it; they came to life and sped at her with startling velocity. She curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest to minimize the damage… although, it would hardly matter, given the fact that there were a million razor-sharp pieces of colored glass that could very easily tear _her_ into a million pieces. Every muscle tensed in anticipation of this very thought, prepared for the onslaught of pain… if she even lived through it. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing _could_ make sense anymore. Squeezing her eyes closed on a prayer that it would be quick, she hardened herself to death. To the unforgiving hands of Fate that had so convincingly given her to a dismal end.

The silence rang thunderously in her ears. She marveled at the serenity.

Until she fell.

It was not a painful nor particularly _long_ fall, but how in the world had she managed to awaken in her neighbor's estate… in _mid-air_? Had she tried to commit… the thought choked her as she scanned the windows, all closed so early in the morning. She was thankful there were no witnesses to this rather bizarre turn of events, but it did _not make sense_. Gathering her abused chemise and robe, she made back towards her home—her rooms—where she could be as mad as she wished in _peace_. Damn everyone to Hell and High Waters! She would return to her bed after cleaning up her _mess_ and promptly forget this entire morning ever happened. Waking up in the air, indeed… she was sure mother would have absolutely _loved_ to hear _that perfectly believable_ story. _'Oh, I'm not sure how I got there, but I remember waking up and then falling on my rump. In the neighbor's garden.'_ They would probably assume that she had been sleep walking. Or absolutely _gallymongers_.

Wait, _gallymongers? _Her brows knitted together in a frown. Where had she heard _that_ from…?

_Vanishing cats and curtains of lace; green eyes set in a familiar face…_

Even her chambers held a grudge, however; the moment her toe crossed the threshold, the floor disintegrated into evergreen blades of grass, that impossibly pink horizon twinkling overhead. She fell—_again_—and bit back a groan, sure she would have some bruises she would not be able to explain. But fear did not make her hesitant—the _anger_ did. What was going on here? She was quite through with her mind playing tricks on her, but never had they been… so _painful_. She kicked at the dirt in baleful frustration, wondering if she would ever escape from this illusion. "Stop this, Alice!" she commanded herself, her hands fisting as she tried to concentrate on _reality_. On the Kingsleigh manor, on the sleeping occupants inside; on her mother, who had held her for hours until finally returning to bed; on her sister, now a mother of her own babies, who had quietly supported Alice all of her life… on her father, who taught her to trust herself and to believe what _she_ felt was real. Her father. _Father._

"Fancy meeting you here, my dear!"

Startled, she jolted at the voice. She spun about, wide-eyed with her heart stuck in her throat.

The image of a field of flowers struck her again; unconfined flesh and a vivd redhead in a robe… the same robe this man before her wore now, black satin and a long, crimson sash. His skin darkened before her eyes, his features contorting from someone so _familiar_ into someone she _knew_ and had not seen in a very, very long time. His hair was longer than she remembered, but his smile was unmistakable; those twinkling eyes that always held mirth, as if laughing at a joke no one else would be able to comprehend.

"P… papa?"


	7. Memory Five: Shadow

_s p i r a l_

**SHADOW**

None of this was real. The ethereal sunrise, the emerald landscape, the sighing trees, the castle in the distance… her father, standing before her as if he were very much _alive_. This was all just a sad, sad fancy her mind had pulled over her eyes…

But she was crying again. And those very solid arms came to hold her, his voice murmuring sweet, placating nothings through her curtain of hair. She wanted to blurt out _everything_ to him, to talk and ask and simply stay here forever… but all she could do was sob, and then laugh when he said, "I don't remember you crying so much over anything before. No use crying over spilt milk now, dear." He ran a hand through her curls and she could feel the smile against her temple, warm and loving. She buried her nose against his collarbone, savoring the scent of him. When next he spoke, his voice was a bit muted. Subdued. "You've grown _so much_, my little Alice. As beautiful as your mother. But I must say," and here, he finally pulled her away, though his hands stayed on her quivering shoulders. "You're not taking care of yourself _at all_. You're terribly thin; have you been eating?"

She wanted to ask if he was _real_, but she knew that answer. She knew and did not want to know.

When she did not answer, he sighed, smiling just a tiny bit. "Darling, there is no one that can ever care about yourself more than _you_ can." He was playing with her hair affectionately. "This is _your_ vessel—your body, mind and spirit—so please, _try_ to keep it healthy." He paused, searching her face. For what, she could not say. "You're still in there, my amazing, artistic, astute little Alice." His murmur was confident, pride radiating from every pore in Charles Kingsleigh's body. For a moment—just the barest, tiniest slices of times—she _felt_ like this wonderful person her father spoke so highly of. "Locked away and buried… but you're still there."

Alice shook her head, wanting to believe… though she knew it would only lead to heartbreak. "I've lost my muchness, papa." She grit her teeth against the anguish those horrible little words caused; to admit defeat was to fail. The very fact that she had succumbed to this weakness spoke volumes of the character she no longer possessed. "I'm none of those things anymore."

His brows knitted together in a frown. "I know my daughter. It would not matter if a day has passed, or a thousand; you cannot find that kind of brilliance if you traveled the world over—and then made a second trip!" His chuckle rumbled in his chest, tickling the little girl inside of her that so desperately wanted to hold onto her father and never let go. "You are, and forever will be, my perfectly meritorious and _mad_ Alice, and no one can _ever_ take that away from you." He blinked, then added, "unless, of course, you let them. And there isn't a darkness brave or foolish enough to challenge you." She ducked her chin, but his hand forced it up high. Forced her eyes to meet his sparkling gaze. His whisper was most conspirational, as if he shared a secret meant only for her. "Want to know what else, my turtledove? I _am_ real, and I love you with all of my heart. Don't you ever forget that."

Her eyes widened. How had he known? Was it possible…? No, that he had 'read her mind' directly attributed to her delusion. But his words were _so much_ like her father's. His every mannerism, every breath, every move was _exactly_ how she remembered her father; the heat that radiated from his skin, the stars in his eyes, the slight musk of fresh parchment and earth—these were all icons of the late and great Charles Kingsleigh, and this apparition mimicked them all flawlessly. "I _can't_ believe you." Her voice was a broken wail.

Charles held tightly to his beloved youngest, gathering her in his arms once more. "Believing is what you have always done, and _must_ always do."

Alice buried her face in his chest again, even as she cried from the injustice of it all. "But you're _not_ real, and I will wake up in my room and _you won't be there._"

There was a moment when the only sound was her shivering hiccups. "You _will_ wake up," he admitted. "But I am _always_ there. Believe in your rabbits. Believe in your cakes and cats and caterpillars; the hare, the Dormouse and benevolent White Queen. Believe in your _hatter_, dear." He paused when, startled, Alice jumped back just a bit, her face frozen in shock. "Your Wonderland has been waiting for you, and will be there if you would only but reach for it."

She faltered. "H-how…?" And then, it did not matter. This was not _real_. "I've spent seven years being told that it was all a warped perception on reality; that I was imagining you as a hatter to _cope_, and the Tweedles were the Chattaways and…" she could not continue to demean those _purely fictional_ characters that meant so much to the part of her that could still remember them. Sometimes. "This is the world I've known all of my life—the only reality I was _born_ into. How can I believe you?" But oh, how she wanted to believe. Even as she tried to mitigate the truth in that, she knew how accurate it was. Alice _wanted_ to believe that she could just hop into a rabbit hole and find herself in that wonderfully magical place all over again, and laugh and cry and marvel at how _right_ she had been.

"Alas, my dear, I bear ill tidings," Charles sighed, bringing his fingers to once again entangle in her hair. He seemed fascinated by it. "I am forbidden to speak of what will come to pass," he hedged, never meeting her gaze. A dark dread seized her heart, clenching painfully. "But I _am_ permitted to warn you."

Her brows knitted together in a frown. "Warn me? Of what?"

It was obvious that he did not want to speak further, as if the thought of voicing these demons would bring them to life. Perhaps they would, but was it not inevitable? Alice resisted the urge to ask the plethora of questions that suddenly assailed her, grasping for restraint that constantly evaded her. "There are… _elements_ at work, Alice. Dark and vengeful elements." His eyes bore into her own, trying to convey a message she could not understand. She wished ardently that she could. "If you believe in nothing else, please believe this." He gripped her shoulders, urgency darkening his features. "Nothing is impossible unless you believe it to be."

Alice had heard those words before. "I love you, papa," she whispered, defeated and so horribly alone.

"I love you, too." He embraced her, laying his head atop of hers. "I miss you terribly."

When he shattered, so, too, did the lovely hill and impressive vista of Mamoreal's White Castle. The odd sensation of floating did not leave her and as she moved to hug herself—the sudden and painful loss of her father's warmth reopened the wound he had left in his death—she noticed the sun moving higher into the sky. How long had she been caught under her vivid illusions?

As dark eyes watched the lady Kingsleigh, Alice obliviously searched for answers in the stars swallowed by the sun.

**AFTERWORD:** Regardless, thank you all for reading and reviewing thus far, and thank you for your continued support! I truly appreciate it, and you've given me the inspiration to march forth; I only hope I do not disappoint. I will try to update as often as I can, but that _damn_ plot bunny from _Everlasting Embers_ keeps biting me and I don't know what to do with it. How do you kill a plot bunny? O.o For those who care, _Her Infernal Majesty_ is on hiatus.


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